


War Paint or No Paint

by TurtleWexler



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleWexler/pseuds/TurtleWexler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity helps Oliver paint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Paint or No Paint

“You had to pick white,” Felicity says for the tenth time.  
  
“I thought it would look good with the red brick,” Oliver repeats, shrugging again. She is giving him her best ‘not impressed’ face. “Sorry, next time I’ll be sure to consult you first.”  
  
“Thank you, that’s all I ask,” she says, turning back to dipping the roller in the tray before continuing with her task. “How do you feel about orange in your bathroom?”  
  
He doesn’t respond, just climbs down the ladder to refill his bucket of paint, already regretting his decision. He’d been thankful when she had shown up at his new loft that night, hair tied back wearing a pair of old jean shorts and an M.I.T. t-shirt that had seen better days, insisting she was there to help. He’d tried to protest but she’d silenced him with a ‘that’s what friends do’ comment.  
  
Glancing over at her now, he’s not at all surprised to see she is still spotless, her ponytail swaying slightly as she put the paint roller to use. He moved in to stand beside her, acting as if cutting in the wall she is working on is imperative or something.  
  
“We need some tunes,” she says, bumping his elbow accidentally. He doesn’t move away, likes the way their arms occasionally touch with each pass. “Oh, purple!”  
  
“Purple tunes?”  
  
“No, purple for your bedroom,” she says, turning to look at him with a smile.  “I was going to suggest green but yeah, nope, a little on the nose, ya know?”  
  
He’s smiling down at her with a grin he knows he can’t suppress, never could around her really. He’s so caught up in this quiet moment that his brain can’t catch his arm before it’s moving, painting one long white stripe down Felicity’s exposed arm.  
  
She stares down at it, her mouth falling open a little. Laughing he turns back to the wall, studiously dipping his brush back into the small bucket in his hand. Then he feels it, wet and sticky, the roller starts at his shoulder blades and doesn’t stop till it gets to the middle of his back.  
  
Stunned, he turns to face her. She’s standing there, roller still raised, looking at him like she might want to laugh.  
  
“I don’t think you want to start something you can’t finish, Ms. Smoak,” he says, trying to fight his own smile while also trying to inject a bit of his menacing Arrow voice into his words.  
  
Felicity’s smile grows as she steps forward, roller still held aloft. Slowly, deliberately, she rolls the paint soaked roller down his chest. He watches her do it, catches the way she bites her lip as she takes a step back.  
  
Carefully, he sets the bucket in his hand down. She’s watching him, not bothering to hide her smile or the excitement in her eyes as she waits for his next move.  
  
Then he lunges, using tactics he would normally need a knife in his hands to utilize, he tags both her legs with the brush in his hand before she’s even had a chance to scream. And then she’s laughing and he’s laughing. He can feel paint in his hair and face from her roller colliding with it. He doesn’t hesitate to grab Felicity around the waist rubbing the top of his head against her face as she laughs and tries to squirm away while his free hand tickles her.  
  
“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” she says, trying to get away from him. In her efforts she jumps up and he’s sure she didn’t really plan it, but her legs wrap around his waist, his own traitorous hands moving to keep them in place as he backs her up against the wet wall. His head is still buried in her neck and they are both breathing heavy.  
  
This is the definition of a compromising position and neither of them are laughing any more.  
  
When he thinks he’s finally got a hold on things, he pulls back to examine his handy work but doesn’t let her legs drop. She has paint on both her cheeks, a smudge on her forehead, her arms and legs are dotted in white paint. Their t-shirts stick together on their chests where the paint has settled. There is even a tiny spot on her bottom lip.  
  
Once again his body isn’t listening to reason because his hand leaves her thigh to rub one thumb over her bottom lip to remove the offending paint. That’s when he finally meets her eye, sees she is staring at him just as intensely.  
  
“I can’t do this anymore, Oliver,” she had said last month. The words haunted him more than the island did but he’d agreed with her. The breaking point they collided with after the date was to real to deny.  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh so much,” she says quietly with a small smile, bringing him back to the present. He takes a step back then, carefully lowering her down to the ground before backing up even more. The more space between them, the better.  
  
They’re both completely covered in white paint.  
  
“Felicity,” he begins but doesn’t know where he is going so he stops, sighs and moves in to press her back against the wall tilting her head with his hand in order to kiss her. He pauses, his lips just barely brushing hers, but it’s enough time for common sense to reign. She’s pushing him away and he’s going easily.  
  
He watches as she disappears into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. He looks around at the mess they’ve made. Luckily their little paint war was contained to the drop clothes, only a few drops making it to his freshly refinished hardwood floors. He doesn’t care, loves that he’ll have a permanent reminder of the evening.  
  
She emerges twenty minutes later with wet hair, wearing one of his old sweatshirts and a pair of his sweat pants she had to cinch tightly around her waist to keep them from falling off. He knows only the barest of tugs would send them pooling around her ankles.  
  
“I really do think purple would look good in your room,” she says, as she ignores him in favor of collecting her purse.  
  
“I’ll look into it.” He gives her an indulgent smile, that she returns when she finally meets his eye.  
  
“See ya tomorrow?” She asks, her hand already on the door.  
  
He sighs, nodding at her, glad they have each other’s backs. 


End file.
